


Send The Universe A Thank You Card

by stevergrsno (noxlunate)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Animals, Fluff and Angst, Holidays, M/M, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 21:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17108570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noxlunate/pseuds/stevergrsno
Summary: Bucky Barnes was eight years old when Steve Rogers came barreling into his life in the sort of way that left Bucky’s life divided into two distinct periods-Before Steve, and After Steve.He, of course, didn’t realize this at the time, but to Winifred Barnes and anyone else with eyes, it was apparent.Or seven moments from seven winters in the life of Bucky Barnes.





	Send The Universe A Thank You Card

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nikkiRA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikkiRA/gifts).



> Written for the Marvel Holiday Swap for NikkiRA who is ridiculously talented on ao3 and also very funny on twitter.  
> It’s got a smidge of angst in there and a whole lot of fluff and I hope you enjoy it! Even if it’s slightly less festive than I intended it to be.

❄❄❄

**_Winter, 1925_ **

Bucky Barnes was eight years old when Steve Rogers came barreling into his life in the sort of way that left Bucky’s life divided into two distinct periods- _Before Steve_ , and _After Steve._

He, of course, didn’t realize this at the time, but to Winifred Barnes and anyone else with eyes, it was apparent.

What Bucky remembers about Christmas that year isn’t the fond tsking of his mother over Steve and Bucky attached at the hip, but rather the fact that Steve and Sarah Rogers came bustling into their home like a whirlwind and made themselves at home. He remembers Steve and Becca looping arms and playing some sort of game that years ( _Decades. A century_ ) later Bucky couldn’t recall the point of but could remember the exact sound of their laughter. Mostly he remembers the way their apartment felt full, the swell of voices that filled the room, and just how warm it felt.

**❄❄❄**

**_Winter, 1944_ **

Europe is cold in a way that sinks into Bucky’s bones.

He thinks that maybe it’s possible he could freeze here, trapped in the snow and the war, just another name on a letter sent back home.

_‘Dear Mrs Barnes,_

_We regret to inform you that your son was captured and experimented on by Nazis, then went and followed after Captain Rogers stupid ass and got himself frozen. Wasn’t much we could do, what with the war and all._

_Regrets,_

_The Goddamn United States Army’_

It’s not even close to what the letter would say, but that would be the meaning of it. The why and the how. The fucking cause and effect that Bucky doesn’t want to think about but finds himself dwelling on in the cold, dark night when he takes yet another watch because after Azzano (after a cold table and cold needles and-) he can’t seem to sleep right. Can’t seem to _be_ right.

Steve seems to _know._ There’s something quiet and cautious about him when no one’s around to see it, something that makes Bucky think maybe, _just maybe,_ he knows Bucky’s not quite right anymore. That while they shot Steve up with something and made him perfect, they did the same to Bucky and made him _wrong_ somehow.

Bucky’s parts were all scrambled and put together _wrong,_ everything liable to explode like one of Howard Stark’s disasters, and god, he’s not sure how anyone in this entire god forsaken world wouldn’t be able to see that obvious fucking _truth._  

Steve folds his oversized body down next to Bucky’s, presses their shoulders together tight and Bucky pretends he can leach enough warmth off of him that he won’t feel the chill down in his soul.

Steve’s been a weird sort of quiet since he showed up in a brand new body that neither he nor Bucky seem to have any idea what to do with, but Bucky feels grateful for it in the moment, especially when Steve uncurls one of Bucky’s hands from his gun and replaces it with his own.

Bucky curls their fingers together and squeezes Steve’s hand tight enough that if this was a few months ago and an ocean away it might have hurt, and then, slowly, but surely, he leans sideways towards Steve until the side of his head rests against Steve’s shoulder.

Steve squeezes back, turns his head to press a kiss into Bucky’s hair, and then settles in to keep watch.

**❄❄❄**

**_Winter, 1985_ **

The Soldier is not supposed to be affected by something as inconsequential as cold. He is the Winter Soldier, pulled from the cold whenever the world is in need of him, and should therefore be well accustomed to the chill.

There is something in him, however, that yearns- wants- _desires_ the warmth of the fire he can see through the window he’s aiming his scope through.

There is the echo of a voice in his ear, warm and low, _‘C’mon, Buck, I think we can think of something a little more interesting to keep us warm,’_ and the press of hands on his hips.

The Soldier breathes in. Breathes out.

Once, twice, three times, and then the target is in front of the brightly lit tree and the Soldier pulls the trigger.

**❄❄❄**

**_Winter, 2015_ **

Bucky is either nearing 100 years old or much, _much_ younger. He’s honestly not sure which one sounds more comforting. He has a metal arm, a brain that feels like it’s made of more holes than swiss cheese, a shitty apartment in a shitty area of Romania that retains heat about as well as a cardboard box, and a stray cat that refuses to leave him alone.

The stray cat’s kind of a pain in the ass, which is why Bucky’s started calling it ‘Steve’ and pretending that saying that name doesn’t hurt in the slightest.

Steve winds his way around Bucky’s ankles, leaving orange and white fur on the leg of Bucky’s pants and meowing for food like Bucky’s been starving it.

“Shoo,” Bucky says, half heartedly shaking his foot in an attempt to get the cat to leave him alone. Steve isn’t swayed, just latches its claws into denim and hangs on. “C’mon, I fed you this morning, you’re not foolin’ anyone here asshole.”

The cat meows, somehow seeming contrary and Bucky reaches down to grab it by the scruff with his flesh hand and lifts it up in front of his face to stare it down.

Steve stares back.

Bucky narrows his eyes at it and stands his ground.

Steve doesn’t seem moved.

Bucky sighs and drops the cat on the countertop, giving it a quick scratch to it’s head before getting out it’s ridiculously expensive wet food.

The damn thing’s too skinny anyway, it can probably use more food.

 

The cat’s a little shit and Bucky will insist on that until the day he finally dies a death that actually sticks, but when he lays down on his shitty mattress for the night Little Steve perches his scrawny ass on Bucky’s chest, legs digging in uncomfortably until he settles, and after a moment of contemplating dumping the shithead off of him, Bucky raises a careful hand to smooth down the cat’s back until it starts up a gravelly sounding purr.

With the steady weight on his chest and snow drifting down in large clumps outside his window, Bucky manages to sleep.

**❄❄❄**

**_Winter_ _,_ _2017_ **

“Oh god, my _eyes.”_ Sam says as he takes in Steve and Bucky’s apartment.

Bucky might have possibly, slightly, just a tiny bit gone overboard with decorations. It’s not his fault, not when Steve had looked quietly adoring as Bucky added decoration after decoration to their shopping cart, a dumb look on his stupid face like he couldn’t quite believe this was his life. Bucky hadn’t been able to resist the urge to keep that look firmly affixed.

So.

 _Decorations_.

“Did you buy the entire Target holiday section? What is everyone else in Brooklyn using to decorate their homes?” Sam asks, poking at one of the many holiday themed throw pillows that populate their couch. Bucky snuggles tighter into the ridiculously soft blanket he’d made Steve spend a ridiculous amount of money on and sniffs.

“After 70 years of brainwashing I think I’m allowed to decorate for the holidays however I want.” Bucky insists, mostly to watch Sam squirm the way people tend to when he reminds them of the whole brainwashed assassin thing.

Sam, like always, disappoints by acting utterly unimpressed by Bucky’s Great And Terrible Tragedy. “Yeah, you still owe me a car for that 70 years of brainwashing shit.”

“Yeah, yeah, put it on Steve’s card.”

 

Sam leaves, because he’s got his own shit to do that isn’t lingering around the home of two super soldiers while they dance around each other on Christmas Eve. And then it’s just them. Them, and Little Steve, and the suddenly oppressive entity that is being surrounded by 50 bucks worth of twinkling Christmas lights.

Because this is their life.

Because Steve and Bucky are apparently goddamn morons who can’t sit down and talk for five minutes about their feelings. Bucky would be a lot more upset about it if he wasn’t wholly complicit in it.

He just wishes that 70 years of brainwashing didn’t mean they apparently can’t just pick up where they left off without having a goddamn _discussion_ about it first because _holy shit_ is he sick of Steve acting like he might start something and then backtracking like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

 _‘Fuck it’,_ he thinks and reaches for Steve’s hand. Nothing ventured, nothing fucking gained right? If he wants them to get their heads out of their asses he’s going to have to make it happen himself.

Steve looks surprised for all of a moment and then he laces their fingers together, squeezing hard and giving Bucky that same stupid look he’d had on his face over the decorations. Like Bucky’s done something incredible and Steve can’t believe he gets to be a part of it.

It makes Bucky want to wipe that look off his face. With his mouth. More than that it makes him want to keep doing whatever the hell it is he’s doing that keeps getting him that.

“You’re a sap, Rogers.” Bucky says, bringing his other hand up to cup Steve’s chin, brushing his thumb over the corner of his mouth where it’s curved in an impossibly soft smile.

Bucky has the irrational urge to move into that smile. To exist and share space with it in a way that is frankly impossible. So he does the next best thing, guiding Steve with a hand on his chin until their mouths slot together.

It’s a simple press of lips against lips at first. Slow. Simple. A sharing of space- of air- of each other. And then Steve is grabbing onto him, and surging forward the same way he rushes to meet everything -too much, too hard, too fast- and absolutely fucking perfect and it’s suddenly _more._

When he pulls back Bucky feels-

He feels-

 _Too much_ for words. There is nothing, not a single word in any of the goddamn languages Bucky’s got rattling around his head that can describe what he feels.

“I wasn’t sure if you still-”

“I do.”

“ _Oh_.”

“You’re an idiot Rogers, you know that?” Bucky says and Steve lights up like Bucky’s just said ‘I loved you, I love you, I’ll always love you.’

 

**❄❄❄**

**_Winter, 2018_ **

“I brought pie!” Sam hollers as he barges through their door without knocking. Bucky’s started getting used to it, and it’s not like he minds not having to get up from the couch just because one of Steve’s friends has decided their apartment is the place to be.

“Is it your ma’s?” Steve asks, poking his head out the kitchen door, a towel in hand and suds still lingering up to his elbows.

“No it’s from the grocery store- Yes of course it’s my mom’s. Who the hell do you think you’re dealing with Rogers? An amateur?”

“Yes,” Bucky says at the same time Steve says “Of course not!”

“Firstly,” Sam says, gesturing towards Bucky where he’s currently refusing to leave the couch and absently fiddling with Little Steve’s fluffy ears, “Fuck you. Second of all, you better not have tried to cook Rogers or-” The rest of it is muffled by the kitchen door swinging shut behind Sam and the water for Steve’s dishes turning back on.

Bucky knows he could make out their conversation if he wanted to, but he can hear the muffled sound of Steve laughing over something Sam said, and Little Steve has started purring on Bucky’s chest, the low rumbling reverberating through Bucky. With all of that there’s no real reason to do anything but sink into his book and let it all wash over him.

 

“There’s a dog outside.” Bucky says sometime later, when dinner’s been eaten and Steve and Sam are laid out on the floor like a beached whales and Little Steve has taken to attempting to climb up the Christmas tree in the corner. No one seems inclined to stop him, even as he darts out a paw and attempts to knock an ornament off it’s branch.

“By itself?” Sam asks, and then when Bucky nods, “It’s like 30 degrees, what the hell is a dog doing out there by itself?”

Sam’s already getting to his feet. So is Steve. Bucky resigns himself to the fact that he’s about to accidentally adopt a dog and pretends he wouldn’t be doing it if Steve wasn’t there.

(He would. Little Steve is proof of that. Hell, _Steve_ is proof of that.)

 

“We’re naming it Boris,” Bucky says mostly to hear Sam’s disgusted noise.

Sam pats the top of the dog’s head sympathetically and leans in close to tell it, “You poor thing, your life’s never gonna get any easier is it?”

Steve tilts his head and scrutinizes the dog. “Boris Barnes. I can see it.”

The dog seems absolutely fine with it’s unfortunate name. Though maybe that’s because it’s more than happy with it’s current lot in life, warm in Steve and Bucky’s apartment instead of outside in the slowly drifting snow.

Honestly, Bucky’s with the dog. He’s not sure he can complain about his current situation either.

**❄❄❄**

**_Winter, 2019_ **

Their apartment is loud and stuffed to the brim with people and animals. Steve is attempting to “help” in the kitchen, Sam and Wanda are both bitching at him about it, Natasha has taken over Bucky’s most comfortable chair and Clint is spread out on the floor underneath both Little Steve and Boris.

Bucky watches for a moment as Boris seems intent on licking every square inch of Clint’s face and Clint, the disgusting human that he is, _lets him._

“Do you have any idea where his mouth has been?” Bucky asks as he folds himself down onto the ground next to Clint.

He can’t see all the windows from here, doesn’t have all his sight lines, but he _can_ see into the kitchen, can catch the look on Steve’s face when Wanda gestures with a wooden spoon and flings batter across the room, when Sam says something that makes him laugh with his whole body. It seems like a more important thing to watch, somehow.

“Dog's mouths are very clean.” Clint says, seeming to starfish out a little further like he’s somehow melting even more into the carpet.

“I think that’s a myth.”

“What’s a myth?” Steve asks, flopping on the floor when he’s finally been successfully shooed from the kitchen.

“Your ass. It’s the stuff of legends.” Bucky says automatically, his hand finding its way to the back of Steve’s neck when he tips himself sideways until he’s half on Bucky’s lap.

“This is true. You know, there’s a whole book written about how the Army made me the peak of physical perfection.”

“Shame they couldn’t perfect your brain too.” Bucky teases, tapping his fingers against the side of Steve’s neck and smiling at Steve’s huff of laughter.

“If you believe the propaganda his brain was already perfect,” Natasha says, her legs hooked over the arm of Bucky’s comfiest chair and an elf hat perched on her head. Clint had put it there and Bucky’s a little surprised she’s let it stay there as long as she has.

Former assassins don’t exactly _do_ elf hats.

Bucky had tried to insist on this to Steve, but Steve had said “Yeah, and do former assassin's _do_ American heroes?”

(‘American Heroes’ had been said in the same tone of voice Steve does those stupid PSAs in. His ‘You’ve got to be _shitting me’_ voice tha Steve pulls out for shit he doesn’t want to do but has to sound _patriotic_ for and that Bucky has a strange fondness for, even if Peter Parker once went viral with a video of Bucky reacting to one of the videos featuring it.)

Bucky had responded with “If it gets the job done. Sometimes it’s even a perk.” and waggled his eyebrows and tried to corral Steve back into their bedroom for some _much better_ Christmas festivities.

Steve had shoved the hat on Bucky’s head.

Bucky still has it on, albeit a lot less jauntily than Natasha’s apparently willingly worn one.

“I want to meet whatever author claimed he has a perfect brain,” Bucky says in disbelief, “And then I’d like to have _words_ with them.”

“ _Fun_ words?” Natasha asks, perking up a little more in her chair.

“Very fun,” Bucky confirms, “Very sharp.”

“I’m not sure I like when you two are in the same room together.” Sam says from the kitchen doorway.

 

Later, when dinner has been eaten and everyone has gone home, and it’s just the two of them, their pets, and an apartment to clean the wreckage of Christmas from, Steve presses himself against Bucky’s back, pushes Bucky’s hair aside and brushes a kiss to the back of his neck.

“Hi,” Bucky says, sinking back into the solid presence of Steve at his back. Steve’s hands slip down along Bucky’s sides, stroking up and down in a slow solid motion that makes Bucky feel like if it was possible he’d be purring like Little Steve.

“Good Christmas?” Steve asks, kissing Bucky’s left shoulder twice.

“No. It was horrible. I hated it,” Bucky says and twists around to face Steve, “Of course it was good.” He adds, the _‘duh, dumbass’_ implied, albeit softened when he brings his hands up to cup Steve’s jaw and drag him in for a kiss.

From the living room the dog barks, the cat yowls, and there’s the crash of the tree toppling over. And just like that, the softness and the quiet is over and Bucky’s spending the rest of his Christmas chasing after two asshole animals he never meant to adopt.

 _Merry Christmas asshole,_ the universe seems to be saying, _sure_ _it took awhile but I gave you everything you wanted._

Bucky wishes he could send the universe a Thank You card.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I would normally use this space to tell you to come follow me on tumblr but that ship seems to be sinking so come follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/attackofthezee) or [dreamwidth](https://stevergrsno.dreamwidth.org/) instead.


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